Zhao Changhe used to think that taking Baoqin simply because he could, or dragging her in as the next contender after a night with Wanzhuang, was unfair to the girl. So he had always held back, waiting for the right moment.0

In the end, he had made her wait thirty years—long enough to turn her into a living statue of longing.0

And now, to meet again and go straight to bed without a word? It did feel a little unseemly, at least to him.0

But that was his thinking. What mattered far more was how she saw it.0

Even back then, Baoqin had yearned for it. Zhao Changhe might have believed it unfair, but Baoqin had already accepted her role from a young age. She had long since truly seen herself as a personal maid, loyal in body and soul. That self-image had never changed, not even now, when she served as the Chief Secretary to the Prime Minister, holding a post of real authority. No matter her title or accomplishments, the roots of that role were still deeply embedded within her.0

So, regardless of what Zhao Changhe thought now,...0